


the back of the camaro always smells like cigarettes

by missroserose



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Car Sex, Cock Worship, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mild humiliation kink, Mutual Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Smoking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21536593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missroserose/pseuds/missroserose
Summary: Like many things involving Billy Hargrove, asking for a favor never quite goes the way Steve expects.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 16
Kudos: 243





	the back of the camaro always smells like cigarettes

the back of the camaro always smells like cigarettes, and sweat, and cheap cologne—and other things Steve can’t place, or maybe that his mind refuses to put a name to—though he can probably make some educated guesses, mental images that he doesn’t need to see so vividly, _thanks_ , brain—

“You gonna sit and look pretty back there all day, princess?”—the voice is dark against the susurrus of rain outside, smoke-roughened, smoke from the cigarette held between two fingers, smoke from the fire behind bright-blue eyes that meet Steve’s in the rear-view mirror—”Because it’s a good view, but it’s not what I’m paying you for—”

“You’re not paying me at _all_ —” Steve cuts off that line of argument, knows that concepts like _a ride home in the rain isn’t payment, it’s a favor_ and _you could try being a decent human being for once instead of making ridiculous demands_ and _you’re a perverted son of a bitch_ carry no weight in Billy’s mind—he’d just laugh, _what am I, Harrington, your knight in shining armor?_ —”and besides, I have to work up to it—”

he’s lying, and Billy looks at him like he knows he’s lying, like he can _smell_ Steve’s half-mast in his jeans, and he reaches up, angles the mirror obscenely, “what, you want me to sweet-talk it first? Tell it how pretty it is?”

—and Steve’s face is _burning_ , burning like that cigarette, burning like those eyes—

he’s not _trapped,_ not some helpless damsel chained up in the dragon’s lair, unable to do anything but scream—he could get up, get out, _leave_ , brave the rain, the humidity, let the water drip unpleasantly down his collar, let the wet Indiana heat press in on him like a blanket, let it ruin his _hair,_ his hair that he spends an hour on every morning—it might be better than listening to Billy Hargrove _talk_ —

but then Billy leans back in the driver’s seat, and even though the mirror’s angled away now (angled towards _Steve’s crotch_ ), even though all he can see is the smoke blowing from Billy’s nose, the expressive shape of his lips, the disgusting little mustache, Steve can practically feel those _eyes_ , staring heat directly between his legs—

and he swears it’s not a conscious motion, swears he doesn’t know where he finds the courage, but his hand moves between his spread legs, palm pressing at the more-than-half-chub that’s becoming fuller every moment, and he wants to die at how fucking good it feels, wants the earth to swallow him up when he sees Billy’s lips curve upward—wants to disappear so nobody will ever know how rapidly that makes his cock finish filling out—

“Fuck yes,” Billy almost growls, and Steve’s abruptly grateful he has his hand over his crotch, because it hides the way his cock _kicks_ at that sound, at the breathy note in Billy’s voice—

and Steve is rubbing, stroking for real now, glaring at the mirror even though he knows Billy can’t see his face, and he suspect Billy senses it anyway because the smile grows wider—

“Best unbutton those Levi’s, Harrington, ‘less you want to cream your pants for me—” and Steve _does_ , pops each button individually, lets Billy have an eyeful of the tent in his white Calvins before he reaches inside the waistband, pulls it down beneath his length, runs his fingers back up, just lightly, almost teasing, fingertips pressing at the head before he makes his thumb and forefinger into a ring, slides it down just under the ridge, tightens—

the smile fades, lips part in the mirror, and Steve continues his teasing. Touches, tugs, strokes—runs his fingers over the slit, gathers precum, rubs it in little circles over the frenum beneath the head—hears the sudden, hitched intake of breath—

“Jesus, Harrington, you going to take all day or what—” the words are chaallenging, but the tone is smoky, smoke-filled like the car (cigarette smoldering in the ashtray), dissolute around the edges, almost inviting—and when Steve sees that lip catch between pearly teeth, he wraps his fingers around the shaft and gives a little moan—a performance, but a real one—

the teeth tighten, dimpling the skin, and he hears the softest grunt, as though in satisfaction, or appreciation, or desire sublimated. The clink of a belt buckle, the scratch of a zipper—

Steve holds back. Draws his fingers along his length, but slowly—watches the lip release from the teeth, the lips move, the syrupy-ragged sound of Billy’s voice—”Are you sure you don’t need a little sweet-talk?”

“Talk to it, then.” The words come from that same strange place, the authority of the subconscious pressing them past his lips—Steve nearly blinks, surprised at himself, half-certain Billy will laugh at him—half-wondering if he _wants_ to feel that burning shame—

the lips curve upward again in the mirror, the heat returns, and then that voice, that tattered edge that haunts Steve’s _dreams_ , that lures him in, that keeps him here, that keeps him saying _yes_ to Blly’s demands, over and over—that voice, soft and low and shuttered, not wrecked, not yet, but a little threadbare around the edges—that voice says “hey. You’re looking awfully fine, there. Proud. Are you into this? You like being watched? Admired? Maybe it gets you going, knowing there are eyes on you—”

and Steve has to bite his own lip against a groan, has to move his hand _more_ , because Billy Hargrove is talking directly to his cock and it’s filthy and disgusting and so fucking _satisfying_ —

“You’re beautiful, you know that? Pretty boy here is pretty, but you, you’re something else. I noticed you right away, you know. In the locker room. The showers. Straight and gorgeous and so fucking _hung_ —how was I supposed to keep my eyes off you— _”_ Steve can’t see his arm, the seat is in the way, but he can see the way Billy’s shoulder moves, can feel the rhythmic rocking of the seat, the car, maybe the whole world—a little moan, barely more than a grunt, appreciative, and then Billy’s talking again—”I’d put you in my mouth if I could, you know—”

and this time, there’s no hiding it, no shielding the way Steve’s cock _strains_ , convulses, as if the thought of those sensitive lips with that awful mustache stretched around its girth wasn’t the best damn thing it’s ever heard, and Steve isn’t at all certain he doesn’t _agree_ —isn’t at all certain he doesn’t make a sound, surprise and arousal and lust all in a heady mixture, because sure, Billy’s gone after him, humiliated him, pressed him and made him flush and taken advantage, but _this_ , this kind of near-reverence, was something Steve never _thought_ —he gasps, half-embarrassed at the breathy moan, half-proud of it, as if daring Billy Hargrove to keep running his mouth, or maybe do something else with his mouth—

“You like that? I thought you might—you’re every bit as much of a slut as they say, aren’t you? Poor Harrington, it’s not even his fault—he’s just along for the ride while you go after every pretty thing that comes your way—” and there’s a break, a gasp, a small swallow—”fuck, if I had you in my mouth I’d make you forget everywhere else you’d ever been—”

and Steve’s stroking in earnest now, his rhythm matching Billy’s, and he knows there’s going to be that same ragged edge in his own voice but he doesn’t even _care_ , he’s too gone on the image of Billy on his knees before him, _worshipful_ —”Everywhere?” he says, asks, _pleads_ —

“Fuck yes, everywhere—” and Billy’s rhythm is speeding up now, Steve’s own strokes moving to match it, unconscious, as if they’re sharing the same intent—”You seen this tongue, Harrington? Thick what it could do, wrapped around that beautiful cock of yours, sliding along your length, swirling around your head, curled underneath—’til you’re all mine, pretty boy, ‘til you can’t even—fucking—remember—”

and Steve is full-on gasping now, breaths coming uneven and hitched, lost in the image, the ghostly sensation of Billy Hargrove’s wicked fucking tongue against his cock taking on a life of its own, driving him further, the brakes gone, shame gone, any semblance of thought gone, barely hanging on to speech by his fingernails—he tilts his head back against the top of the seat, feels his body start to tremble, so close to the edge—”fuck—fuck, Billy—I’m gonna—”

“Do it—” the words are barely more than a growl, but they send a spike—no, a flare—no, a fucking _supernova_ of heat through Steve, pushing from the inside out, pushing him _out,_ carrying him along in its wake until his entire body convulses, cock pulsing, shooting a load so hard it hits his fucking _chin—_

and there’s a strangled sound from the front seat, the rhythm of Billy’s shoulder growing furious, a tension of breath held, teeth clenched, determination and drive and desperation as he swallows a sound—as he gasps, curls forward and in on himself, and for a half-moment, Steve sees his face in the mirror, eyes screwed up tight, mouth agape in ecstasy, in invitation—

they sit, for a moment, perhaps a minute, breathing hard against the still-pouring rain, silence in the heavy humid air between them.

then, wordless, Billy puts himself back together, puts the key in the ignition, and starts to drive.

Steve puts himself away, gingerly, thinks about buckling the seatbelt, decides he’d rather not add his mess to the collection of smells in this backseat—they’re not far from his house, anyway, a little over five minutes’ drive even in the rain—

the quiet stretches between them like pulled taffy, thinner and thinner until Billy pulls into the driveway, and Steve braces himself for the words, the nasty cutting degrading words—there’s no way that Billy will let things stay like this between them, he’s a lone wolf, rangy and mean, he’ll sever this connection the way he would a diseased limb, a weakness to be cut away—he should leave, Steve should leave, before Billy can cut him like that—

“Want to come in and get cleaned up? Nobody’s home. We can wash our clothes.”

Steve’s voice, disembodied, distant in its confidence. He wonders where it came from, this invitation, this reaching-out to a person he thought he hated—this endurance of the akward, weighted, stretched-out quiet between them, rain drumming on the roof of the car. Wonders what’s gotten into him, to speak so confidently.

Then, low and quiet, the response—”Take off your shirt.”

Steve answers, similarly low. “I might get your backseat messy.”

“You’ll get it messy if you leave it on. Take it off.”

And Steve feels himself on the edge of a different precipice now—flicks his eyes to the rear view mirror. Feels poised, ready to leap.

“If I take off my shirt, will we even make it to the laundry room?”

The smile slowly spreads across Billy’s face, stretches in the suspension between them, Steve’s stomach flipping, weightless, weirdly exhilarating—

then Billy tilts the mirror up. Meets his eyes.

“Let’s find out.”  


**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely inspired by the folks on the stranger trash discord. Thanks for encouraging me to try weird stylistic things and different ideas and basically revel in being a fellow trash panda. 🦝🦝🦝
> 
> Liked it? Hated it? Having feels? Want to shout with me about idiot boys and their homoerotic dominance games? Leave a comment, or come find me on [tumblr](https://missroserose.tumblr.com/)!


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